To Kill a Queen (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.6) Read online

  Finding himself included, Vince sprang to the immediate and happy conclusion that there was in the offing an invitation to lunch or dine at the Castle. For Her Majesty's benevolence to the tenantry was well known. She was ever eager to dispense good works of a religious nature and for those unable to read, flannel petticoats and plentiful practical advice on child-rearing, a subject on which she was undeniably an authority. The statesmen and aristocrats of her realm would have been shocked to be present and to hear their monarch addressed thus informally:

  'Sit yeself down, Queen Victoria,' or 'Ye'll tak one o' ma' bannocks and a wee bittee crowdie cheese, Mistress Queen.'

  In humble thatched cottages, the Royal gifts were received with no more awe or reverence than had the Queen been fulfilling the role in which she liked to cast herself, a laird of Balmoral.

  While Vince and Faro waited for Brown to continue, Tibbie was hovering by the table, listening intently. She was the first to break the silence.

  'And how is your mistress the day, Johnnie? She was verra gracious just afore the accident. We had a wee visit, ye ken, and Mistress Bella gave her a jar o' pickles to take back home to the Castle wi' her. She had admired them that much.' And with a shake of the head, 'The Queen will be that upset to ken Mistress Bella's in the hospital the now.'

  'A sad business, Tibbie. But she's on the mend—'

  'Aye, she is that, but—'

  Faro listened helplessly. His curiosity about Brown's visit thoroughly aroused, he longed to get to the point. But unable to stem the tide of conversation by which Tibbie had diverted her visitor's attention he occupied himself with some minor observations.

  The timing of Brown's visit suggested urgency since after setting down his Royal mistress at the Castle he must have picked up the lad Lachlan and set off immediately for Easter Balmoral.

  The inescapable conclusion was that 'the Queen's business' was vitally important. Faro also suspected—if their earlier encounters were anything to go by—that it was likely to prove both uncomfortable and unpleasant.

  He was right. Brown finally managed to extract himself from Tibbie's well-meaning chatter by standing up abruptly and snatching his bonnet from the table.

  'I have words for your ears, Inspector. Perhaps you'd be good enough to step outside a minute.'

  Thrusting feet hastily into boots, Faro followed Brown into the tiny garden. Before Brown carefully closed the door behind them, Faro had a glimpse of Vince's startled and rather crestfallen expression as Tibbie declared: 'Good gracious, lad. I hope everything's all right up at the Castle and that no one's been pilfering the silver—'

  Brown heard it too. At Faro's enquiring glance he shook his head. 'More serious than that, Inspector. Much more serious.'

  Was Brown about to discuss the Crathie murder? Or was the Queen in danger?

  As he thought rapidly about how he could deal with such an emergency single-handed, Brown continued. 'Aye, this matter concerns the Queen's twa wee dogs.'

  'Dogs, Mr Brown, did you say?'

  'Aye, man. Dogs. Twa o' them wandered off and were found dead, still wearing their collars. Shot.'

  Brown paused, regarded Faro intently. 'The Queen's verra upset. Verra. I'm at my wits' end, Inspector. Made all the usual enquiries but we canna' find their killer. The Queen will be verra severe on him. Royal property and the like, lèse-majesté and so forth.' With a shake of his head, he added, 'I wouldna' be at all surprised if it was the jail for him when we get him. And that, Inspector, is where you come in.' 'Me?' Faro's voice quavered a little. 'Aye, you, man. Who else? When the Queen saw you on the road back yonder she says to me: "There, Brown, there is your answer. Inspector Faro. How very fortunate that he is here. He will know exactly what to do. He is a policeman, after all. He will find out who killed our precious darlings."'

  Chapter Three

  Faro stared at Brown in stunned silence.

  Should he feel flattered? Was he actually being asked... ? Nay, the Queen didn't ask, she commanded, and he was being commanded to investigate disappearing dogs that got themselves shot.

  In constant danger of losing the crown off her Royal head by wandering unconcerned within the sights of madmen's guns, the centre of sinister plots emanating from a dozen different European countries, here she was demanding that the deaths of two household pets be investigated by Scotland's prime detective.

  He had a sudden desire to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the task. At the same time he was seized by a considerable eagerness that none of his colleagues in Edinburgh's Central Office should ever be made aware that Faro was now searching for dog-killers. Even Royal dog-killers.

  Brown stroked his beard, regarding Faro's silence thoughtfully. 'Too difficult for ye, Inspector?'

  Faro pulled himself together with some effort. 'I shouldn't think so. But I thought it was the Crathie murder you wanted to discuss.'

  Brown opened his mouth, closed it again. 'And why should I want to discuss that in particular?' he demanded suspiciously.

  'I am a detective, sir,' Faro replied trying not to respond with the indignation Brown's questions warranted.

  'That matter is closed. The lass is dead and buried. No one knows who killed her. Person or persons unknown. That was the verdict.'

  He put heavy emphasis on the last word and continued sternly, 'I have been directed here, Inspector, by the Queen to bring to your attention the matter of her twa dogs.'

  'What kind of dogs were they?' Faro asked repressing a sigh.

  'King Charles spaniels. Peaceful brutes, if that's what ye're getting at, Inspector. No' the kind to threaten any puir body. Or take a nip out o' a passing ankle. No' like some,' he said with a dark look at his bare leg on which a closer inspection might have revealed a profusion of ancient scars suspiciously like those of canine encounters.

  Faro nodded. King Charles spaniels. How like Royalty. 'What were their names?' If he had to conduct a murder enquiry presumably Royal dogs merited the same methods as mortal victims.

  Brown thought for a moment. His frown deemed this a somewhat unnecessary question. 'Er, Dash and—Flash. Aye, that's it. Grand at following the guns.'

  Faro considered this statement. And no doubt it was the most likely cause of their unfortunate end. He pictured them growing stout like their Royal mistress, slow-moving. Too slow-moving to get out of the way of exuberant grouse-shooters.

  'Male or female?'

  Brown thought about that too. 'Och, we dinna worry. There's always more men than wummin, ye ken.'

  'I beg your pardon. I meant the dogs, not the guns.'

  'Och, man, you should have said what ye meant,' was the reprimand. 'Dogs or bitches, we call them. These twa were bitches.' And with a defiant stare, 'And no' in heat, if that's what ye're getting at.'

  Faro was disappointed at this deflation of his second logical conclusion for the disappearance of bitches. 'Shot by mistake obviously. Got too close to the birds. Or the sheep,' he added lamely.

  Brown shook his head. 'No,' he said firmly. 'I havena' told the Queen, I didna' want to upset the puir lady but they were shot through the head. And from the powder burns I'd say at very close range.'

  'Where and when were they discovered, Mr Brown?'

  'Twa hundred yards from the Castle. On the path by the river. Night after the Ghillies' Ball.'

  The estate was vast, thought Faro despairingly. The dogs buried and nearly two weeks later, there would be few clues, that was for sure.

  Regarding Faro sternly, Brown continued. 'Look, man, all this isna' of much importance. It's no' where it happened, the Queen wants to know. We all ken that. It is who would deliberately shoot the Queen's favourite dogs.'

  It was at this stage of the conversation that Faro decided that Brown, excellent fellow though he was, would never make a detective. The first question was 'Where and when?' Which almost inevitably led to the second, 'Why?' and lastly, the all-important 'Who?' For in that sequence lay hidden the precise clues to the killer's identity.
r />   Early in his career Faro had hit upon the almost infallible theory that the criminal inevitably leaves behind from his person some tangible piece of evidence, be it a thread of torn clothing, a footprint, or some small possession lost in the death struggle which might be used to link him with his victim. And in the same manner, he reasoned, the murderer also carried away on his person by accident some substance identifiable with either the victim or the scene of the crime.

  This theory had rarely let him down in his twenty years with the Edinburgh City Police. He held it in such high regard that he saw no good reason to abandon it when considering dogs instead of humans.

  'I should like to see the exact spot, if you please.'

  Brown shrugged. 'They are buried in the pets' cemetery, among all the wee birds, dogs and horses that have served the Queen loyally. She is sentimental about such things—'

  'You mistake my meaning, Mr Brown,' Faro interrupted. 'I wish to see where the dogs were found.'

  Brown regarded him a little contemptuously. 'As you wish, Inspector. But take my word for it, there's nothing there. Ye'll be wasting your time.'

  'Nevertheless,' said Faro firmly.

  'Verra well, verra well. If you insist. And it's a fair walk—Inspector,' he added in the pitying tone reserved for the born countryman's idea of the town-bred traveller.

  'And I'm a fair walker, Mr Brown. You have to be in my job, you know, tracking down criminals.'

  Brown seemed surprised at this information. He responded by nodding vigorously and withdrawing a handsome gold timepiece from his waistcoat pocket, 'It'll need to be the morning then. I'm on duty at the Castle within the hour.'

  'Tomorrow it is, then.' Faro walked with Brown to the gate. 'I am about to visit my aunt in the hospital at Beagmill.'

  'Beagmill.' Brown smiled. 'Lachlan has the trap at the road end, so if you'd care to accompany us, we'll set you down there.'

  Glancing down at his boots, hastily retied, Faro bowed. 'My feet are obliged to you, sir.'

  Brown gave him a sympathetic nod and Faro added, 'Is there room for Dr Laurie?'

  'I dinna see why not.'

  Faro signalled to Vince who was staring out of the window. And as they walked ahead of him on to the roadway, Brown was unable to suppress his curiosity. 'Yon's a fair dainty young man.'

  'My stepson, sir.'

  Brown seemed surprised. 'A real physician, is he?' His tone implied awe.

  'He is indeed. He takes up the post of locum tenens at your hospital tomorrow.'

  'Well, well.' John Brown didn't greet this information with any enthusiasm. 'He looks awfa' young. No more than a bairn.'

  'I warn you not to be misled by appearances, sir. He's a good man to have around in a fight, I assure you. And what is more, he is my most trusted assistant. His help has been invaluable in solving many of my most difficult cases.'

  'Do you say so? Well, I never.' Brown's response implied disbelief and Faro glancing back realised from the scarlet colour that flooded Vince's ears that he had overheard Brown's hoarse whisper.

  He looked at his stepfather and mouthed indignantly, 'Of all the nerve.'

  As they walked down the steep hill to where Lachlan and the dog-cart waited, with a desperate need to change the subject, Faro asked, 'Is Lachlan your son?'

  'Nay, Inspector. I'm not wed. He's a fostered bairn wi' one o' my cousins. Been away at the college, studying.' He made it sound a formidable task.

  As they boarded the cart, he continued, 'Brown's a common name hereabouts. From the days when the clans were proscribed and the laird's kin took something a little less dangerous than their Gaelic surnames...'

  Clattering wheels and the bumpy texture of the steep track made further conversation impossible. The scenery however was enchanting and Faro was quite content to gaze at the panorama of mountain and stream and breathe in the wine-clear air, already sharpened like his appetite by the hint of autumn waiting in the wings.

  Far above their heads another flash of gold.

  'Yon's golden eagle. Inspector. Has his eyrie on Craig Gowan.'

  The eagle soared, the sunlight on widespread wings turning him into that bird of fiction, a phoenix rising. Along the line of the mountains rose sharp triangles of stone. Brown followed Vince's gaze.

  'Cairns, doctor,' said Brown in answer to his question. 'Monuments put up by Her Majesty to mark some memorable event in her family's stay at Balmoral. Yon's Beagmill.'

  Lachlan reined in the cart opposite a handsome granite building set back from the road.

  'Until tomorrow, then, gentlemen. We will look by for you at nine.'

  Faro and Vince walked up the drive to the main door. Embedded in stone letters: 'The Prince Consort Cottage Hospital. 1860.' Inside a wooden board with a Royal coat of arms declared the establishment 'dedicated to the alleviation and treatment of illness and disease among Her Majesty's loyal servants and tenants'.

  The hospital had two strictly separate wings, whose entrances bore the words 'Men' and 'Women' also carved indelibly in stone, the sexes sharply and properly divided.

  Although undeniably small, Faro observed that the wards were a considerable improvement on the housing conditions prevailing in many a Scottish town.

  For the poor of Edinburgh's High Street with their squalid tenements and wynds supporting ten of a family in one dreadful room, such cleanliness and orderly comfort would have prompted thoughts that they had died and gone to heaven.

  Prince Albert's main concern had been the health of the young: too many infants died at birth or succumbed to the many diseases of infancy. Among Britain's poor, to have survived forty years was to have reached old age, and many were consigned to earlier graves by neglected illness and hard work. Ironic, was the whisper, that for all his good works, the Prince had died at forty-two of typhoid and, some hinted, of medical mismanagement.

  A decade later, residents were either extremely healthy or regarded hospitals with suspicion. Wards were rarely more than one quarter filled and patients fell into categories of broken limbs, amputations (through horrendous accidents with farm equipment) but rarely the old and infirm.

  The latter were something of a rarity, usually incomers or foreigners to the district, since hardy local folk never gave up, and old Balmoral servants preferred to die in Royal harness. Or in extremities of age, they drifted into a happy second childhood under the careful and loving attention of the younger members of the family.

  The Prince had provided the hospital with a doctor and three nurses. He had liked his doctors to be young and imaginative, perhaps even a little rebellious in the cause of medical progress. The present incumbent, who was approaching his seventieth year, had been prevailed upon to take a short holiday and to employ a young assistant.

  While Vince's Dundee appointment as factory doctor eminently qualified him for such responsibility, the unhappiness in his personal life had also taken toll of his never-abundant self-confidence. He had it on good authority, however, that should he prove worthy of the hospital appointment and Dr Elgin's esteem, then he might be offered a permanency.

  Was it the Balmoral connection that attracted Vince, a step nearer his ultimate dream, the goal of Queen's physician, Faro wondered. He entertained some misgivings about his young stepson hiding himself away in a country hospital instead of a large town where he could gain experience and expertise in medical diagnoses.

  The hospital seemed ideal for a family man, a middle-aged doctor and a countryman at heart, rather than a young man at the beginning of his profession. Vince, Faro suspected, would soon become bored.

  'Dr Elgin,' the nurse-in-charge informed Vince sternly, 'was not expecting your arrival until tomorrow. He is now off duty for the evening and is only available in case of an emergency.'

  'Then please do not disturb him on my account. I have lodging for the night and will present myself tomorrow.'

  Consulting notes on the desk, the nurse said, 'Not before eleven, if you please. Eleven o'clock is when Dr Elgin co
mpletes his morning rounds,' she added, directing them to the ward where Aunt Bella received them rapturously with hugs and kisses.

  At last all three, rather damp about the eyes, settled back and with assurances that Bella would be home in time for her birthday, they smiled at each other as happily as the stern hospital atmosphere would allow.

  The only other occupant of the ward was an old lady with a bandaged head who seemed to be asleep.

  'That's Nessie Brodie. It was her cottage burned down. Puir soul,' whispered Bella. 'Ye ken her, Jeremy?'

  Faro did vaguely. His aunt would enjoy having a sympathetic companion and a captive audience. For if that blameless lady had a solitary fault it was being a compulsive talker.

  Talk was to her like breathing. The house resounded with ceaseless chatter between Tibbie and Bella, though Faro suspected that neither heard one half of what the other was saying. And on the rare occasions when Bella thought she had the house to herself, she was quite happy keeping her vocal chords in excellent trim by talking to herself.

  Now her sole disappointment at going home was the knowledge that her beloved great-nephew was to be Dr Elgin's assistant.

  'If that isna' an awfa' coincidence,' she cried. 'And me not to be here to keep an eye on ye.'

  The old woman in the next bed stirred, muttered something and closed her eyes again.

  'Puir Nessie, she's no' been the same since the night I dragged her out of the fire.' Faro and Vince listened patiently, unwilling to tell her that Tibbie had already stolen her drama in the detailed account of the cottage in flames and Bella's daring rescue.

  'Och, I'm just fine,' she assured them cheerfully. 'Ma legs are still bandaged, ye ken, but I'm getting on grand. Just a few scratches.'

  With a sigh, she continued: 'They wouldna' consider letting me bide in ma' own home. Said I was to come into the hospital where I could be looked after properly. Ma stairs are a wee thing steep and narrow, and puir Tibbie's no' able to heave me up and down. Lassie's that frail hersel'.'